endo.

The child approached Jose, and with a dignified little courtesy and a
frank smile offered him a cup of the lukewarm water. The priest
accepted it languidly. But, glancing into her face, his eyes suddenly
widened, and the hand that was carrying the tin cup to his lips
stopped.

The barefoot girl, clad only in a short, sleeveless calico gown, stood
before him like a portrait from an old master. Her skin was almost
white, with but a tinge of olive. Her dark brown hair hung in curls to
her shoulders and framed a face of rarest beauty. Innocence, purity,
and love radiated from her fair features, from her beautifully rounded
limbs, from her soft, dark eyes that looked so fearlessly into his
own.

Jose felt himself strangely moved. Somewhere deep within his soul a
chord had been suddenly struck by the little presence; and the sound
was unfamiliar to him. Yet it awakened memories of distant scenes, of
old dreams, and forgotten longings. It seemed to echo from realms of
his soul that had never been penetrated. The tumult within died away.
The raging thought sank into calm. The man forgot himself, forgot that
he had come to Simiti to die. His sorrow vanished. His sufferings
faded. He remained conscious only of something that he could not
outline, something in the soul of the child, a thing that perhaps he
once possessed, and that he knew he yet prized above all else on
earth.

He heard Rosendo's voice through an immeasurable distance--

"Leave us now, _chiquita_; the Padre wishes to have his breakfast."

The child without speaking turned obediently; and the priest's eyes
followed her until she disappeared into the kitchen.

"We call her 'the smile of God,'" said Rosendo, noting the priest's
absorption, "because she is always happy."

Jose remained sunk in thought. Then--

"A beautiful child!" he murmured. "A wonderfully beautiful child! I
had no idea--!"

"Yes, Padre, she is heaven's gift to us poor folk. I sometimes think
the angels themselves left her on the river bank."

"On the river bank!" Jose was awake now. "Why--she was not born
here?"

"Oh, no, Padre, but in Badillo."

"Ah, then you once lived in Badillo?"

"_Na, Senor Padre_, she is not my child--except that the good God has
given her to me to protect."

"Not your child! Then whose is she?" The priest's voice was unwontedly
eager and his manner animated.

But Rosendo fell suddenly quiet and embarrassed, as if he realized
that already he had